


crown of thorns

by Padraigen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bewildered Tom, Gen, Harry Has a Crush, Innocence, King Tom - Freeform, M/M, No underage, Pre-Slash, Sweet Harry, Young Harry, could be considered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28032048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Padraigen/pseuds/Padraigen
Summary: "Truly, Harry just liked beautiful things—flowers in bloom, sparkling jewels, freshly fallen snow glittering in the sunlight—and King Thomas might have been the most beautiful thing of all."
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 26
Kudos: 141





	crown of thorns

The castle halls were mostly dark and always cold. The sun rarely peeked from behind its cover of clouds. Laughter was a rare sound from within the king’s domain, and smiles—should they dare—were always secret and never to be seen by the king.

All of this Harry knew well as a servant of the crown. He didn’t much mind the dark or the cold—had indeed grown up with both—but he wondered, only sometimes, why people were so cautious to show their contentment in the king’s halls.

Harry had been in the king’s presence but a few times, but he heard the whispers—for a kingdom without gossip was no kingdom at all. King Thomas was an austere man, formal in bearing, reserved in all respects, and some even said his spine was made of ice—Harry did not like to imagine such a thing, for a spine of ice must be intolerably cold, and he knew he himself would not withstand such pain.

But still… Harry had seen him, if only a few times, and he was never unkind. He was never cruel or neglectful or unfair, and if he ruled with a fist of iron, well, Harry had heard stories of much worse kings and their much worse off kingdoms.

His father used to say that the king’s absolute, ruthless control of his kingdom was what saved them all from invasion so many years ago when so many of their neighbors had fallen. His uncle disagreed, but his uncle had been inclined to disagree with everything his father said—that was what his mother used to say, anyway—and Harry rather thought he was inclined to agree with her.

He’d been forced to learn from a young age what a disagreeable man his uncle was when his parents had died, and his relatives had sent him to live and work at the castle instead of with them.

Regardless, most tended to agree Harry was too young for an opinion on the matter—he had, after all, only just been born when the fighting had ended. But Harry had an opinion anyway, and it was that he liked the king.

He liked his deep voice—the way he could speak so softly, so lowly, and still command a room. He liked its bewitching cadence, how something so subtle could demand complete attention. He liked his frosty grey eyes, the way they glowed from within, ethereal. He liked his hair, dark as ink and as smart as the man himself.

Truly, Harry just liked beautiful things—flowers in bloom, sparkling jewels, freshly fallen snow glittering in the sunlight—and King Thomas might have been the most beautiful thing of all.

There was one thing Harry didn’t like, however. He didn’t like the king’s ebony crown of thorns. It was not beautiful, but dark and twisted and sharp. Harry could not imagine that it was terribly comfortable, either. He shuddered just imagining something so heavy and pointed digging into his scalp for hours on end.

He was quite convinced that it must hurt, but no one else seemed concerned. The only time he’d asked about it was with the cook, and she’d gotten a severe look on her face and told him to mind his business.

But Harry simply couldn’t.

It was the end of the year, which meant celebrations. But what Harry knew that most did not—he was guilty of eavesdropping more than he cared to admit—was that the last day of the year was also the anniversary of the king’s birth.

He got the impression that the king did not like to celebrate his birthday, but he knew what it was like to have no one acknowledge a day meant to be special. He knew what it was like to spend a birthday alone. The day he’d turned ten and one, he hadn’t received a single present to speak of, and he’d hate for anyone else to go through the same. Especially if that someone was the king.

He even had a plan, although only time would tell if it was a very good one. See, only a few days ago he had been wandering the castle halls long past the time he should have been in bed asleep, and he’d accidentally stumbled across the king—well, not literally. Harry didn’t think King Thomas had seen him—opening a door Harry had never really noticed before and disappearing inside.

Harry had quickly run back to the room he shared with the other serving boys so he wouldn’t get caught out, but he hadn’t forgotten. The next day he’d found the door and opened it up to a small room—more of an antechamber, really, though he couldn’t get the door inside to open—within which was a simple desk, chair, candle, and a few books. He guessed this was where the king liked to secret away sometimes to be alone, as Harry had never seen anyone else come into this room, and was proven right the next night when he’d sneaked out again and hid behind a corner very near to the place he’d been when he’d come across the king the night before.

It felt like hours he spent there hidden in the shadows before the king finally manifested at the end of the other hallway, striding perfectly silently down the hall until he disappeared once more into the room.

Now Harry waited in anticipation in that very same room on the final day of the year, listening to the rare sounds of celebration and excitement outside his—or, rather, the king’s—hiding spot and hoping with all his might that the king would visit his hideaway tonight.

But hours passed, with Harry unfortunately missing most of the celebration, and not even the briefest hint of a glimpse of the king to show for it. The noise outside had completely died down when Harry finally gave up, shooting one last glance at the ever-closed door before sighing and standing from the chair.

And then the door creaked slightly.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath as he watched the door silently open, inch-by-inch as if in slow motion. His heart raced, beating an erratic pace in his chest, and his palms were suddenly clammy.

At last the king appeared, a look of irritation tightening his features. Harry might have flinched at that look if he wasn’t currently rooted in place.

The king lifted his head and his gaze met Harry’s. At the same instant, the door closed with an inexplicably loud slam.

Harry couldn’t breathe. Other people’s wary caution under the attention of the king would no longer leave him perplexed. All at once, he understood why someone would quake under the pressure of that gaze.

“Who are you?” King Thomas snapped, and his voice carried impossibly in the small room like a bolt of thunder. “You should not be in here.”

“Y-Your Majesty,” Harry stuttered after a long moment of him trying to find his voice and stop his knees from trembling. “My name’s Harry.”

Beyond a brief twitch of his eye, the king did not respond.

For a short but wildly frightening moment Harry forgot why he was here. It came to him in the next breath, however, and he squeaked out, “I—I wanted to… wish you a happy birthday, my lord.”

The king’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and Harry was quick to continue.

“I waited for you… To give you this, sire.”

Here, he reached for the flower crown he’d crafted just that morning. Few flowers could be found in this wintry cold, but his mother had taught him where to look just as she’d taught him how to braid the stems together. There were no roses or lilies, but Harry thought that these flowers—pansies and snowdrops and others he didn’t even know the names of—which flourished even in the dead of winter would suit the king better anyway.

His hands shook so terribly that he nearly knocked over the candle he’d lit hours ago as night fell and he still waited for the king. With a sort of bravery he hadn’t known he possessed, he thrust the crown laid out on both his palms before the king, his arms quivering as if he held a block of pure metal. “T—This one shouldn’t hurt,” Harry said by way of explanation.

For a very long moment the king stood there, merely staring at the crown in Harry’s hands with a strange look on his face that Harry couldn’t hope to read.

When the moment stretched long enough that he worried his arms might just fall off, Harry slumped in defeat and lowered the crown. His face flamed as he whispered, “Forgive me, my lord.”

It took everything he had in him not to break out in a run, blinking rapidly to keep the tears he felt burning behind his eyes at bay as he walked away. He could think of nothing more humiliating than crying before the king.

But before he could open the door, he heard the king speak.

“Harry.”

Just the sound of his name was enough to stop him in his tracks. He turned around, biting his lower lip and praying that the king would not notice the wetness in his eyes. “Yes, my lord?”

King Thomas was not looking at him. Instead, he stared straight ahead at something Harry couldn’t see, the curious look on his face unchanged. It may have been seconds or a few long minutes before he finally turned to Harry, and by then his expression had cleared entirely. Harry had no idea what he was thinking as he advanced towards him, and was therefore completely shocked when the king stopped only inches before him and lowered himself to one knee.

Harry was sure he was gaping stupidly as the king’s gaze met his once more, this time as Harry looked down and King Thomas looked up. The king’s arms rose, his movements careful and slow, reaching for the crown of thorns atop his head. His pale, nimble fingers lifted it off his head with an ease that spoke of much practice, and he cradled it in his hands as he lowered his arms again.

Not once during all of this did he break eye contact with Harry, and neither could Harry look away, that icy grey gaze holding him captive like he was under a spell. But it was no spell. Harry knew now that the king just had that effect on people.

And then the king’s eyes shuttered closed, and his head lowered, and Harry could only stare in disbelief.

King Thomas wanted to wear the crown. King Thomas wanted _Harry_ to put it on him. Harry’s chest was almost heaving with his quick breaths, and his hands still trembled as he once again lifted his flower crown. He gently placed it on the king’s head, careful not to let any leaves or petals catch in his soft hair, sighing softly as his arms returned back to his sides.

No. This one wouldn't hurt.

He didn’t expect the king to say anything once he’d lifted his head again, but then King Thomas breathed out a soft, “Thank you.” If they hadn’t been so near each other, Harry wouldn’t have heard it at all. As it was, he couldn’t deny the delighted thrill that went through him at the words, and he smiled at the king as if to say _you’re welcome_.

He took the king’s next nod as the dismissal it was and swept out of the room, his heart light.

**Author's Note:**

> if you could please leave me a comment if you liked the fic, I would appreciate it very much! thank you :)
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](https://padraigendragon.tumblr.com/)!


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